I Was There
by Brievel
Summary: I was there, when they crucified Him.


I was one of the crowd, standing there in Pilate's forum, chanting "Crucify him!" I was one of the ones following on the road to Golgotha, mocking and throwing stones. I was there when he stumbled and fell, and they made the Gentile carry his cross. That was when I began to feel sorry for him. He was bearing it all so patiently, so sweetly, surely he didn't deserve what he was about to get? But the Pharisees said so, and they're the Lord's chosen to carry out His work, so surely they were right. After all, this Jesus claimed to be the Son of the Lord – so why would he disagree so much with the Lord's chosen ones? Everyone knew he and the Pharisees hated each other. And claiming to be the Son of the Lord was sure blasphemy.

Still, he honestly seemed to believe it – perhaps he was mad. I dropped the stone I'd picked up to throw at him, feeling guilty. Perhaps he was not of Beelzebub, after all, just not quite _right_ , like little Isaias next door. Still, I didn't say anything – who would listen to a woman, barely out of girlhood, only just old enough to be married?

But then he turned to the gaggle of women following him and weeping, telling them not to mourn for him, but rather for themselves and Jerusalem. There was no light of madness in his eye, and my fury came rushing back. How dare he claim to be the Messiah? The Messiah would save us all, not leave us to suffer under Roman tyranny! I grabbed up another stone and hurled, striking his shoulder.

He turned and looked right at me, after the stone struck. I'll never forget that look – it was the one Father gives me when I am willful, times ten times ten. He was so sad, so disappointed – but he loved me, so much, anyway, even though I called for his horrible death, and stoned him. I felt like he'd taken a knife and cut me open, seeing all the way into my soul – saw a horrible black stain there, and loved me anyway.

The jagged-edged rock I'd picked up to throw at him dropped into the dust at my feet, and I held still on the edge of the crowd – creeping along at the fringes, following to the Place of the Skull. I heard his anguished cries as they nailed him to the cross, saw his blood – everywhere – I felt sick, and afraid, and sorry. Even if he thought he was the son of the Lord, he was too good – he didn't deserve this.

I stood there for hours, not quite near his followers – his mother among them, I heard him address her – but not with those who mocked him, either. I watched as the soldiers gambled for his clothes, feeling ill. How humiliating, what an insult added to the injury they had done, were doing to him – to _play_ for his _clothes_ before his very eyes.

I was there when he cried out – someone near me said he was calling for Elijah, but I didn't think that made sense with what he said. I was still puzzling over what he'd meant when he died.

It was utterly terrifying. The darkness, the chaos – yelling, screaming, running. Someone ran into me, knocked me over – once I managed to get back to my feet, I picked up my skirts and _ran_ home. It was no less terrifying there, though – Father was out, and sitting in the middle of the floor, as though she wasn't dead and gone for the past six years, was Mother. I backed for the door, but hit the wall instead, too shocked and horrified to scream. She stood, holding her hand out.

"Ellen, dear girl," she murmured, and I stared, clutching my skirt with both hands. "Don't be afraid," she continued, voice warm and affectionate – just as I always remembered. "I came to tell you something, something you must tell David. The Messiah has come – and today, He has died. But He will come back, just as I am back now – but I cannot stay, and He can." She stopped, looking towards the door, before stepping forward and kissing my forehead, just as she used to do when I was a child. "Believe Him, dear one." And then she was gone, walked out the door, _gone again._

I sat down on the floor and cried, sobbed. Dear Lord, what had we done? What had _I_ done?


End file.
